Bring Your Dad to the Gym Day, a Rainy Day Story

            We all know that last week was an epic fail. I went home to the farm last weekend to drown my sorrows with some family time and Iowa wine. I thought my muscles could use the rest. As the weekend wore on, I noticed some pain in my right shin would not subside. My leg still feels like it has some knots and is tender to the touch. I should have iced it, I guess, but I didn’t think my pathetic little workouts would do any serious damage.
            Yesterday was Monday, and I was feeling pretty lazy as usual. I decided to have a chill morning before going to work. I will go the gym after work, I said to myself. I have said this many times, but have not done it. This time I was serious because we were missing bowling due to Josh being out of town. I packed my stuff to take along and off I went.
            At work, my leg was still bothering me. I decided to do a low-impact workout to give my shin some rest. The guy working at the gym agreed, and said my injury was probably due to getting used to my new shoes.
            I got on the elliptical and chose a pretty difficult-looking training program. I thought this would be a good opportunity to get some reading done on my handy-dandy Kindle. Unfortunately, putting down my iPod puts me at the mercy of other people’s conversations.
            Overhearing people talk while they workout always irks me a little. I get out of breath just thinking while working out. How can these people carry on conversations about their bitchy co-workers or that girl they “totally did?”
            I hate listening to these conversations, but every time I hear them, it reminds me of the time I took my dad to the gym.
            For those of you who do not know my father, it’s kind of hard to describe him. He’s a little bit of a cross between Andy Taylor and Barney Fife. Oh, who’s that you ask? The Andy Griffith Show? That’s un-American. If you have not watched it, either rent it immediately or go back to Russia, you Commie bastard.
            Anyway, my dad is a lot like Andy Taylor in the way that he is very hometown. Other than a tour of duty in Vietnam, he has lived “back home” on the family farm his entire life. While he has a country way about him, he is no yokel. He is intelligent with an easy smile and a beautiful deep voice. But, like Barney Fife, he can be very excitable and has very little filter. He often says what everyone else is thinking and is utterly incapable of whispering. Pair that with the deep voice that carries, we often have disaster.
            My mother discovered this very early into their marriage. She always talks about when they attended a wedding together, many years ago. They had run late and had slipped into a back seat when the wedding party was starting to process in. The rather large bridesmaids were donning emerald green dresses. Dad leans over and says to my mother, “I thought the Packers had a game today.” My mom avoids the eyes of the wedding guests who turn around to glare at her, while my father smiles contently to himself, congratulating himself on his unfailing wit.
            See where I get it?
            My parents came down to visit earlier this year for a couple of days before heading to Kansas City for my sister’s wedding. I was going through another fitness spurt, as was my dad. We decided to wake up early and hit the gym before I went to work.
            I woke up when it was still dark out and knock on the door of our spare bedroom. Dad shuffles out wearing jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. I don’t even ask, because this is about what I expected. He shakes his head, “your mother didn’t pack my sweatpants. Boy, these people are going to look at me and say, ‘now, there’s a farmer from Iowa.’”
            “YOU TOLD ME NOT TO. I DIDN’T KNOW! I PACKED WHAT YOU TOLD ME TO. DAMMIT, MIKE!” screams my mother from the darkness of the bedroom.
            An image of my father’s sweatpants dance through my head. These are the pants he puts on immediately after walking in the door from the barn if he plans to go outside and work again. This keeps him from eating lunch in dirty clothes and making my parent’s house smell like hogs. These pants are usually food-stained and smell like the farm, even after several washes.
            I’d rather him wear overalls, if it came to that. “It’s fine, Dad, let’s just go,” I say.
            We get to the gym. I direct him to the men’s locker room. I go into the women’s and hang my coat in a locker. I find my father in the hallway outside looking confused.
            “There’s just lockers in there.”
            “Yes. That’s where you put your stuff.”
            “I’d rather just hold my things.”
            Whatever he feels comfortable with. I really can’t blame him; it would really suck to get his coat stolen in the middle of winter. I worry about it myself.
            “Well, that’s fine. What do you want to do?”
            “Well, I want to bike. I like to ride the bike you kids gave me. I ride it every day.”
            My dad used to ride a very dangerous and old-looking stationary bike in our dungeon-like basement. It was orange metal and had rust on the seat. This bike is so old, it looks like the Wright Brothers may have had it in their shop before they experimented with flight. My siblings and I sprung for a decent new bike as a Christmas present. It now resides in my parent’s kitchen.
            We get to the bike section and I climb on. I help dad adjust the seat, and I notice something is off. Literally off.
            “Dad, where are your shoes?”
            I stare down at some old dress socks, with a big hole in by the right big toe.
            “I never wear shoes when I bike.”
            “You also bike in your kitchen. You can’t do that here. It’s probably in your best interest to put shoes on,, you might get a disease or something. It’s not clean.”
            “Oh, ok, I guess I can put my shoes on.” Dad turns toward his shoes. Dress loafers. Shit. I look around and shove his shoes underneath his coat on the floor. Thank god we are in a corner by ourselves.
            “It’s fine. No one will notice. Let’s bike.”
            We get started and I pull my Kindle out, ready to read, but Dad wants to talk. That’s fine with me, I enjoy his company. I don’t really get to spend a lot of time with my dad. Unfortunately, we wants to talk about other people at the gym. Loudly.
            “Look! Look at that woman over there!” Full arm extended in a point. “Look at all that weight she is lifting! She’s too skinny. Don’t you think she’s too skinny? That’s not right. Do you think she is anorexic?”
            “Dad, please don’t point. And keep your voice down, people can hear you.”
            And they could. People on the weight machines in front of us were stealing glances at the suspected anorexic pumping iron, but Dad was not deterred.
            “Look at that guy in that wheelchair! He’s going to lift all that weight! Do you think he should be lifting all that weight? Shouldn’t someone spot him?”
            “He looks pretty strong. He’ll be fine. Please stop staring. Seriously, you are talking really loud.”
            “Oh, am I? Sorry.”
            We keep biking. We talk of other things: my bowling league, my sister’s wedding, and our weight loss goals. But his urge to verbally observe is strong.
            “Look at that guy! Is he really going to lift all that? Look how big he is! Do you think he takes steroids? I wonder if he will take his shirt off, I bet he has a six pack.”
            This guy actually looks like he is suffering from ‘roid rage and he is not wearing ear buds. He is looking in our direction and I’m starting to get nervous, then Dad suddenly climbs off his bike.
            “Ok, I’m done.”
            “What? That was only 20 minutes.”
            “I always bike 20 minutes. I do it three times a day.”
            “Well, I’m going to be here an hour. Since I woke up early for this, I’m not doing anything less than that.”
            “Don’t worry about it, Sugar.” (24 years old and he still calls me Sugar to this day.) “I’ll find something to do. I’ll make sure everyone is doing everything right. I might spot that guy over there.”
            He laughs to himself. That wit again.
            I keep track of him for a while in the mirrors placed around the gym. You know, where the meat-heads can admire themselves as they do the “g” part of their GTL. Dad actually does wander aimlessly around the weights, observing, and my heart rate goes up a little bit. Then I get the urge to read. I’d rather stare at a book than a mirror, and I guess that explains the lack of spandex in my wardrobe. I start to read and I lose track of Dad. I finally realize my error and become frantic. I can’t see him anywhere. Damn. I get off my bike, turn around, and spot a grinning trainer selling him some supplements. No, no, no, not on my watch.
            I waltz up to the desk, trying to halt the transaction. “Don’t buy this. You can get this crap at HyVee for a fraction of the price.”
            Dad grins at me. “It’s going to help me burn fat. Look at his guy, he knows what he is talking about.”
            I go and get my coat. We’re leaving.
            I know I’m poking a little fun at my dad, but I really can’t blame him. We don’t have gyms back home. The first time I went to a gym was in college. You are either in shape by manual labor, sports participation, or you can elect to go walking. I admire my father’s drive for fitness. I envy his discipline to do it himself at home. There’s probably a reason he looks the same at 62 that he did at 40.
            Anytime you get the chance, take a relative to the gym, even an obscure relative. It can be a lot of fun. At the very least, it can be an adventure.